


Puppy Care, Tucker Style

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes up where “A Storm In A Doggie Bowl” leaves off.  Trip’s expecting a very disgruntled puppy.  Fortunately, he knows just the way to re-gruntle him…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppy Care, Tucker Style

**Author's Note:**

> When I say “where the other story leaves off” I mean exactly that! Actually it comes in halfway through a Tuckerism… This may not make much sense unless you’ve read the earlier story. In summary; Malcolm has returned dripping wet from chasing the captain's dog around in a thunderstorm. It's up to Trip to deal with the consequences in his own inimitable fashion
> 
> Posted previously at the Warp 5 Complex. I realised earlier that while I posted the original fic here a while back, I'd never got around to transferring this pointlessly smutty sequel.

“Bitch!” In the privacy of their shared cabin Trip’s exclamation resounded like a cannon shot, his blue eyes out on stalks as he regarded his sopping beloved. “Whatcha do, chase those damn dogs down a river?”

“No, just through a wet forest.” Wincing slightly as another puddle formed at his toecap Malcolm padded across the threshold, absently wringing a cascade of droplets from his flopping hair. “Honestly, what’s up with your face? Never seen a drowned rat before?”

“Oh, I’ve seen plenty of ‘em, babe.” The endearment got the spiky look he’d hoped for, a first sign of animation breaking the watery surface of Reed’s impassive facade. “Just never thought I’d see Lieutenant Pernickety lookin’ a wet mess! C’mon, get out of those clothes and into the shower before you catch your death.”

“Urgh!”

Liquid squeezed over the tops of his boots as Malcolm stooped. “I should’ve taken some soap,” he remarked, blinking against the sorry trickle of liquid down his brow. “Or shampoo.”

_Was that supposed to be a joke?_

Flummoxed, the engineer simply stared while his partner methodically peeled off each saturated layer of cloth, neatly folding each item as if it were ready to be returned to its proper place in his well-ordered closets. “D’you mind awfully turning the shower on, then?” Reed asked while gently wringing out his damp boxers. Tucker gulped.

“Uh – no problem,” he said, backing into the bathroom without taking his eyes off the smaller man. Malcolm clicked his tongue in a familiar expression of weary exasperation.

“I’m only wet, you know,” he said. Trip nodded.

“Yeah. I can see that,” he agreed. “Shower’s runnin’ hot, and the timer’s offline – Cap’n’s orders, so don’t go pullin’ faces at me. There’s a couple of towels warmin’ up, too; and the kettle’s just boiled. Tea, coffee or hot chocolate?”

“For the moment – none of the above.” Completely unconcerned by the effect his nudity might be having on his partner Malcolm pattered past into the cubicle and positioned himself right beneath the steamy flow with a groan of pure relief. “God, that feels good!”

The near-hedonistic moan was more than Trip Tucker could stand. Stealthily, the rustle of cloth and zippers drowned by the splashing from the next room, he stripped efficiently and eased himself into the tight box in plenty enough time to gently pluck the soap from his lover’s hand.

“I’m thinkin’ you might need a little more warmin’ up here,” he rumbled into the Englishman’s hair, letting both hands wander where they would up the strong, pale chest. Deliberately he pinched a nipple and Malcolm’s answer dissolved in a groan. “Can’t let you get chilled.”

“Lord, no!”

His usually controlled lover flowed to the slightest guiding motion of Trip’s talented hand, the sinewy body arched, pressing itself into the cradle of the American’s thighs and getting an extra shot of heat from the heavy length sprouting there. “Cap’n’d never forgive himself if you got sick from chasin’ his dog,” Tucker crooned, lapping a drop of mingled rain and shower water from an earlobe before following its intended path south down the side of his man’s elegant neck. A small purr breached the tight barrier of the Brit’s puckered lips.

The mouth against his throat opened into a wide smile, tongue-tip feathering the small hollow before venturing west toward a bud already proudly pebbled in anticipation. “Gotta get every little spot,” Trip mumbled, splaying his hands against the brunet’s hip to still his convulsive jerk. _Especially the really hot ones_ , he finished silently.

To Malcolm the water jet striking his skin had morphed into a billion individual fire-tipped darts, each one penetrating his flesh with a delicious spike. He moaned, riding the sound as it rebounded off the tight cubicle screens, his head rolling, vision blurred by the shower’s sting against his goggling eyes. His whole being seemed to focus at the point of Tucker’s lips, moving southerly on a winding path, anticipation swelling until it felt as if it might crush his ribs, and the part of him that needed his love’s special brand of warming most was swallowed down into a dark, wet cavern.

“Uuuhhhh!”

His body surged to the glorious sensation engulfing his cock. Exquisitely sensitive, Malcolm could feel the subtle burn of his lover’s fingers splayed across his hipbones, holding him up as much as back while he writhed, lost in the moment. The chill that had seeped to his bones evaporated. Discomfort was a distant memory, distorted like his current surroundings by the smallest corkscrew flick of his boyfriend’s tongue. He was floating. Flying. Spinning through a vortex of delight. He couldn’t last.

As Trip’s throat relaxed, drawing the pulsing core of his pleasure farther in, he stopped trying. His balls clamped tight. His head rolled. With his seed spurting hard into his lover’s greedy gullet he came apart on a raw, breathless cry.

“Trip!”  


*

  
“Easy darlin’, it’s okay, I gotcha, you just keep breathin’, okay?”

Nonsense. Individual words that he recognised, but that his bliss-burned brain refuse to compute. Malcolm sagged drowsily against the slippery wall, luxuriating in the caress of tepid water and those sweet, half-sung words. He ached all over with the luscious, languid burn of total satisfaction. Somehow, somewhere deep inside, he knew he was quite determined never to move again.

Something soft fluttered against his navel; Trip’s tongue, he decided in a burst of unexpected clarity, worming quivers of sensation into his guts. Trip’s hands were still supporting him, the blunt fingertips working small circles against his flanks. It would be polite, he supposed, to express some appreciation.

“Mmmm,” was the best he could produce, but his boyfriend understood. The flicking tongue was replaced by a nuzzling nose that fanned warm air across his midriff. “Mmmmm.”

“Feelin’ better now?”

“Feel marvellous, thank you.” Bright blue eyes were twinkling up at him beneath a polished crown of molten gold – his lover’s hair, Malcolm realised, plastered flat to the skull just as his own had been by the fiercest rainstorm of his experience: and for a former resident of Kuala Lumpur, that was saying something. “Turn it off now?"

“’kay.” That Trip staggered on rising, pushing him up to the wall with the full weight of his perfect body, was, Malcolm knew, completely, wickedly deliberate. “Towels should be toasty by now if you can reach ‘em…”

One giant bath sheet was just big enough to engulf two fit men if they stayed snug, and since that was precisely what he wanted to do Malcolm left the second dangling mournfully from its blisteringly hot rack. “It was only a bit of rain,” he said mildly, opening out the towel at the cubicle door like a cloak around his shoulders. Tucker snorted.

“Yeah, right. Malcolm, you could’ve kept a whole shoal of catfish in the water that came out of your pants! Lemme rub you down with this, willya?”

“I’d rather you did it with that instead.” His towel became a matador’s cape, poised to be whipped away from the charging bull. Malcolm fixed a beady eye on the taller man’s full-blown hard-on. “You’ve not come yet!”

“Plenty of time.” Trip’s greedy body responded to the physical sensation of that ravenous stare and he seized the second towel, sweeping by his astonished partner to spread it like an extra cover over their bunk. “Lay down, darlin’. Let’s warm the both of us up properly.”

One eye still on the impressive staff of flesh that bobbed eagerly toward Trip’s belly Malcolm obeyed, his hazy state buffered by the flow of warmth from the soft terrycloth through his front. He sighed, burrowing his chin into its fluffy pile, buttocks already lifted in mute supplication. Somewhere, very close by, somebody whimpered.

“Ain’t that the prettiest thing?” Tucker murmured. Sweeping up the towel his boyfriend had abandoned he swooshed it across his back, its soft folds falling around them both when he lowered himself luxuriously onto Reed’s waiting body. “How’s that for you, darlin’?”

“Splendid.” Cocooned in warmth, the precious weight of his beloved pressing him firmly into the soft pile below, Malcolm had forgotten there were was any such condition as wet, miserable discomfort. He bumped his backside into Trip’s swollen length, glorying in the bigger man’s strangled sob. “But I’ll be better if you’ll just put that lovely thing where it belongs.”

“Yessir.” Wrapped in two huge towels it wasn’t easy, but Trip Tucker knew his man’s every line and curve blindfold and he hesitated just long enough to douse his tingling fingers in massage oil before thrusting them home. “You want me to…”

“Take care of yourself, love.” Happily Reed wriggled back onto two probing digits, his face mashing down into the bedding. Fluid gushed between his buttocks, making him arch with delight. He was warm everywhere: warm, comfortable, content, and when Trip’s thrusting grew ragged, his seed spraying hot and hard into his bowels, Malcolm knew with utter certainty he would never feel the cold again.

He rode the wave of the Southerner’s climax in a state of bliss, savouring the unfamiliar awareness his lingeringly sated state brought of his partner’s pleasure: of the thick, strong pulse of Trip’s release and the shudders that rippled through every muscle in the blond’s powerful frame; the harsh rasp of his breath against Malcolm’s nape and the dark, gravelly timbre of his groans. If he was only on his back, Reed reflected, the experience would be even more extraordinary.

“Mmmm, Malcolm.” He loved the way Trip said his name in the immediate aftermath, slurring the syllables together. “Gorgeous, sexy Malcolm. Love y’.”

“Love you too.” When Trip’s weight flopped off to his side Reed rolled with it, keeping himself cosily spooned into the bulkier body. “I’ll have to get half-drowned more often.”

“Huh?” he could almost feel one heavy eye creaking open; feel its bleary burn into his profile. “You don’t have to go runnin’ around in the rain for that, Mal. I’ll heat you up whenever you want it.”

“You always do, love.” Taking advantage of the sex-slackened looseness of his mate’s embrace Malcolm shifted over to plant a tender peck on the sweet upturn of Trip’s nose. “Tell you what, though – Archer can take T’Pol to the surface tomorrow. And leave that sex-crazed bloody hound at home!”

“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ sex-crazed,” Trip objected, ever eager to defend his best canine friend. “But I guess there’s a time and a place…”

“Like this one?”

“Yep.” It was a place Trip Tucker had no intention of leaving again until morning; not even for sustenance from the mess hall so long as he still had two packets of cookies unopened in a drawer.

Lazily he pulled what he could grab of the bedcovers up around them, distracting his man with a leisurely smooch that made the room spin. “Betcha Jon’s not havin’ as much fun with his wet puppy as I am,” he managed when oxygen depletion forced their mouths apart.

“Mmmm, hope not.” Reluctantly Malcolm’s brain unscrambled the significance of those random words and his dreamy smile dissolved. “Is that what I was, then? A _wet puppy?_ ”

“The cutest wet puppy in the quadrant,” Trip corrected, his seriousness breached by a snicker he couldn’t hold back. “Jee- _sus!_ You should’ve seen yourself, all drippin’ and miserable…”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad.” Nothing, up to and including decapitation, would seem bad while snuggled into Trip Tucker’s embrace, Reed acknowledged, but really, it hadn’t. “Oh, I was calling Porthos every blue-arsed bastard in the universe for a while, but then – once you’re wet, you’re wet, aren’t you? There’s a kind of threshold of discomfort: once you’ve passed it, it stops being an issue.”

“You reckon?”

“Trip.” Lovely lassitude, thick and runny as warmed syrup, trickled through his veins. Although it was barely seventeen hundred hours Malcolm could feel himself succumbing, his whole body relaxing toward sleep. “I _know_. Promise me… next time he wants to take Porthos…”

“I don’t think he’ll be doin’ that anytime soon.” His mind was clearing but Trip’s body stayed uncharacteristically still in deference to Reed’s drowsiness. “Sweet dreams darlin’” he breathed across Malcolm’s smooth brow.

If this was his hyperactive boyfriend’s reaction to wretched discomfort he decided, only half-ashamed of the unworthy thought, he wouldn’t mind Porthos causing a storm at every first contact from now on!


End file.
